An intimate exploration of the current state of international affairs.

09/11/2012

It
was only days after my move from that quiet Phoenix suburb to the ghetto known
as Hollywood that I began to notice little changes. Armed with only the deposit
for the first month and what could fit into the back of my 1994 Corsica, I had
a quick lesson about a fast, hard life and what it was like for a teenage child
to suddenly inherit very demanding adult responsibilities. As days turned into
years, the differences between my chosen life and my original life became
increasingly apparent. The people I called friends were still in studies and
living in the comfort of their parent’s homes and checkbooks, while I had
quickly launched into a completely independent lifestyle far away from the
support of my family or the company of people my age. The majority of my
friends and family, never having left the sheltered American heartland, could
not grasp what I was doing, why I was doing it or why I would want to live in a
place that was so “dangerous”. Danger, of course, was being exposed to anything
besides white Southern Baptists, bad chain restaurants and Super Wal-Marts. The
longer I lived away from home, the less patience I had for those who had never
made such a move themselves. They were different. They were stale. On the rare
occasion that I returned for visit, I looked at the places I once called home
with disdain. The people seemed so simple. The clothes they wore there were
silly. Their lifestyles were too slow. Their diets were horrifying. Their
entertainment was hardly worth getting out for. Their educations were most
likely not even worth mentioning. The lucky might have a bachelor’s degree in
something irrelevant from a state university. Their language was plain. Their
ideals were naïve. The cities, themselves, seemed smaller. That was all just
after living in California and taking a few small trips out of the country.

Continuing
my travels and moving to New York only added to the separation of my world from
the world I had once known. I no longer had anything in common with my friends
who seemed either stagnant in their lives or years behind my progression. I was
definitely no longer able to enjoy my visits back to cities that somehow seemed
inferior. The fact that people didn’t know the difference between what they had
and what was available to them troubled me. They couldn’t understand why I had
changed and I couldn’t understand why they wouldn’t want to change. There was
no more communication with people I once knew. We were suddenly speaking
different languages. I had estranged myself from my own world simply by
choosing to live. Deciding to experience my country and all that it had to
offer wasn’t easy, I admit. However, where there is struggle, there is reward.
The challenges that I faced in my adventure returned to me an invaluable
expansion of my mind and a much better understanding of the people who make
this such a diverse and amazing planet. The experience was something I was
grateful to have. It was also something that created sadness. I knew that the
more I continued to live like this, the more I would continue to distance
myself from the world I was brought up in and the people I was brought up with.
Still, I am grateful that my sadness, no matter how overwhelming it has been, it
has never been larger than my ambition.

This
week, my new American friend and I agreed to meet for lunch at Indigo inside
the One Aldwych hotel. Before moving to London 14 years ago, he too, had lived
in several states. In an accent that he insisted was from Boston, but I would
have guessed as being from Northern Texas, he discussed with me the unfavorable
condition of the people of our native country.

“They
don’t know much.”

“No.
They don’t.” I agreed.

“They
just stay in one place their entire lives. They never get out. They have no
idea what’s out there.”

“In defense”, I said, “it is really
a massive country and it isn’t exactly easy to get out. The ability to travel
is limited.” I wondered if geography could be blamed for a culture’s repressed
knowledge.

He
went on, “But
they don’t even travel within the country. They just stay in one place. They
have no connection with the rest of the world. I’ve talked to people that think
London is in Antarctica. They want to know if people drive cars here or just
ride horses.”

I
laughed to myself. His statement reminded me of when a girl from California
once asked me if, in Oklahoma, I had ever seen an Indian in a teepee.

“I’m
not surprised. Sad, isn’t it? You grow and they shrink. It’s embarrassing to
look back and know that’s the mentality you came from.”

I
pushed a piece of seared tuna from one side of my plate to the other before
continuing,

“Would
you ever go back?”

“I
might have a place there, but I’d have to keep my apartments outside the
states, too. Maybe I’d just visit-stay for a few months and come back. Would
you go back?”

I
looked at the people in the lobby below the balcony we dined on and tried to
answer a question I was unsure of.

“I
don’t know. I’m not connected to anything there. There’s so much more of the
world to explore. Go back? I really don’t know. “

The
fact that I was sitting across a table with a man who so casually discussed his
homes in multiple countries served as a reminder of how far I’ve come, not just
geographically, but socially as well. He is one of several friends whom I’ve
discussed global residence with. These conversations were never had during my
time in mid-America.

It
is this bittersweet medley of emotions that I assume must come with most people
who have experienced a similar lifestyle of exploration and travels. While I
feel fortunate to be where I’m from, I also feel fortunate to have gotten out.
While I feel blessed to have developed knowledge from traveling that many don’t
have the opportunity to receive, I also feel some guilt that my experience has
pulled me away from the very people that gave me my founding education. And,
while I want badly to get in touch with people from my past and exchange
stories, I know that, in reality, those conversations simply could not be had
with positive results. I am excited to learn and see more. Still, the more I do
that, the more I become aware of the unfortunate American condition from which
I began. When and if I return to the US, will it still be home? If not
sacrifice their natural drive for adventure, then what does the increasingly
alienated nomad do when everywhere is welcoming, but nowhere is home?

Every
time I step on to a rainy street and see a London cab or red double-decker bus
go by, I get a little chill of excitement. I’m not just in London. I live here!
And when I am home in a state of reflection, I remember moments like that night
that I stepped onto the roof of my yellow apartment building off Hollywood
Blvd., looked up to the hills and saw the Hollywood sign right in front of me.
I was far away from everything and anyone I’d even known, but the promise in
those big white letters assured me the my self uproot was the right thing to
do. I remain assured that it was the right thing to do and I will continue to
pursue this adventure because nothing satisfies me more. Still, I can not help
but feel some sadness at the expense this experience comes at.

Haunting, the ringing echoes of the bells that came just
before. Haunting, but in the back of my mind until I am jerked to full
consciousness and forced to pay attention to what is outside of the pages that
engage me. I realize again that I am still here, and look around for a moment
to watch people of all sizes, shapes and colors in various stages of
depression. I am saddened again and my head drops back to yellowed leaves. My
eyes rise, though, to steal glimpses of the filthy walls and groups of
obnoxious teenagers cursing out loud. The teens and the walls are starved for
attention. The teens are also deprived of education and class. I see occasional
streaks of light that sometimes illuminate the graffiti that mysteriously
appears in the walls of the mostly dark caves. Graves, I think. Haunted by
ghosts of industrial workers and saddened souls of the several decades that
came before. I see trails of light again. The cold steel dragon screams and
exhales its fire. Still in its belly, I drop my eyes back into pages, begging
to be rescued from the gloom that surrounds me.